Ficaia

• User:Ficaia/Sandbox
• User:Ficaia/The Misanthrope
• User:Ficaia/Eugène Labiche
• TO EXPAND: Damon Runyon

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• Her eyebrows neither join nor sever,
  But make (as ’tis) that selvage never
  Clearly one nor surely two.
  • Anacreontea, XVI, 15–17 (Tr. J. M. Edmonds, 1916); cp. Theocritus, VIII, 72

• Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse’s Hyde,
  Stuck on with Art on either Side,
  Pulls off with Care, and first displays ’em,
  Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays ’em.
  • Jonathan Swift, A Beautiful Young Nymph Going to Bed (1734)

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• Press-button church.
  • The Ontario Intelligencer (29 July 1959), p. 2, col. 4

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• Herbert H. Hoffman, Index to Poetry: European and Latin American Poetry in Anthologies (Scarecrow Press, Inc., 1985), p. 95

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• Moe: Listen, Bustoff, you can't drink that! That's alcohol.
  Bustoff: No, that's not alcohol. That's just a little tequila, vodka, and cognac.
  Curly: Oh, that's different. Go ahead!
  • Clyde Bruckman, Grips, Grunts and Groans (1937 The Three Stooges short)

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• On sleds reclin’d, the furry Russian sits;
  And, by his rain-deer drawn, behind him throws
  A shining kingdom in a winter’s day.
  • James Thomson, Winter (1726)

• They went out into the glaring white sunlight. The heat rolled from the earth like the breath of an oven. The flowers, oppressive to the eyes, blazed with not a petal stirring, in a debauch of sun. The glare sent a weariness through one’s bones. There was something horrible in it—horrible to think of that blue, blinding sky, stretching on and on over Burma and India, over Siam, Cambodia, China, cloudless and interminable.
  • George Orwell, Burmese Days (1934), Ch. 2

• The brazen-throated clarion blows
  

  Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,
And the high steeps of Indian snows
  Shake to the tread of armèd men.

• • Oscar Wilde, "Ave Imperiatrix"

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• And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
  Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.
  • A Midsummer Night's Dream, II, i, Oberon

• Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age
  And high top bald with dry antiquity,
  A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair,
  Lay sleeping on his back; about his neck
  A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,
  Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached
  The opening of his mouth. But suddenly,
  Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself
  And with indented glides did slip away
  Into a bush; under which bush’s shade
  A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
  Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch
  When that the sleeping man should stir.
  • As You Like It, IV, iii, Oliver

• We have scorch’d the snake, not kill’d it.
  • Macbeth, III, ii, Macbeth

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